Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. You haven’t had it on your mind all this time?” “I have rather. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. "I told you I would call to bid you farewell, Mr. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore.
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